Mon Fils, Matthieu
by BFTLandMWandSEK
Summary: While selling flowers, a strange French man comes in and starts telling you the sad tale of him and his son. Rated M for suggested sexual abuse.


**MW: **Something I made long ago, but never uploaded here. Anyways, so the story behind this one.

A country X reader group on DA was having a 7 Deadly Sins/Valentine's day celebration contest. So deciding that I was going to be completely original and do something awesome, I wrote a reader insert poem about France using the sin lust. The contest hasn't even given the results yet and this was back in February!

By the way, this is my longest poem yet and I'm rather impressed with it. (And I gotta stop writing mature poems . )

Remember to review~!

**Warnings: **Language and Suggested molestation/ sexual abuse

**Disclaimer: **I own the poem, not Hetalia. Steal this poem and I will hurt you.

* * *

It was Valentine's day,

That stupid celebration.

You've sold flowers all day

to Love's persuaders who win.

None ever looked your way

(You only sold the flowers).

Still, you hoped that someday

a man would stay the hour.

It was during that bout

of pathetic loneliness

you heard the bell ring out

and a man say, "Bonjour Miss."

In walked a tall blond man,

Slender with a flawless grace.

The blue eyes of this man

sparkled from his perfect face.

Cupid visited you

and laid a spell of your heart.

You could say it was true

you craved his love and his heart.

Slowly, you replied, "Hi.

This is Antonio's shop.

Is there a flower you'll like?"

Even now, you heart flip-flopped.

He said, "I come from France.

Je m'appelle Francis Bonnefoy.

I ordered in advance

les fleurs for my little boy."

"His little boy," thought you.

The fact made you unhappy.

You could say it was true:

Francis Bonnefoy was married.

Why can't you meet a man

who was sexy and still free?

You longed for a dear man

To give love and never leave.

"I believe Boss told me

about your bouquet of roses,"

You told the French beauty

as you left to fetch the roses.

They were in the back room;

White roses in a glass vase.

Red maple leaves were shrew

From the apex to the base.

The flag of Canada

is what it resembled.

How could this be thought of

a good gift for his child?

You brought it out for him

and Francis smiled slyly.

"Is something wrong?" he grinned.

"Ma chère, you don't look too happy."

You weren't sure if you should

ask him something personal-

but then again, you could

since the French were personal

when it came to questions.

The gorgeous man's eye lured you

and at last you asked the man:

"Isn't sending flowers rude

when the recipient is

you own child, your own kin?

Giving flowers to him is

wrong and a parenting sin."

Francis raised an eyebrow

and leaned into the counter.

He gave a 'hon-hon'- a vow.

Your excited heart faltered.

Rose perfume surrounded

the intoxicating air

and left you do confounded

Along with his lovely stare.

You felt it tactful to

join him in front of the glass

counter that shielded you

from the man of higher class.

"Why would a belle like you

care about me?" he asked.

His arm wrapped around you

and a strong hand gripped your ass.

Normally, you would have

slapped the pervert's hand away

but those clear blue eyes had

your senses casted away.

"Since you asked nicely, of

course I'll tell you," said he.

"Tis a story of love

and how moi failed at being

fatherly. Long ago,

(I am older than I look),

before my son was grown,

Notre maison lied by a brook.

We lived in harmony

in Canada- it was called

home- It was formally

French land after all.

Mon fils, Matthieu, was shy

and his blond hair was like mine.

Never a boy so kind;

Good hearted, he was only mine.

But due to circumstance,

I left him at home often.

But while I was in France,

I constantly thought of him.

Mon Angleterre told me

that it was what parents did.

Yet I was not at ease-

A wrong feeling laid amid

The love I felt for him.

One night when I held Matthieu,

My sweet, adorable kid,

My traitor of a hand moved.

It traveled lower an'

lower, feeling his body.

The feeling of his skin

was so right and so Godly.

As my hand moved, I found

A pleasure I had to deny."

You should had made a sound,

but nothing was on your mind.

The blond paused for you to

object to what he implied.

But when you didn't move,

he continued with a sigh.

"I craved my son's body

in every sexual way.

How I cursed my hoby!

Yet I live it to this day.

Oh, mais je suis son pere,

I had to- must -protect him.

And so, he left my care

and lived with that damn Britain.

Every Valentine's day,

I send mon Matthieu flowers

so that my love not fade

and he thinks son pere sour."

You stared. You were quiet.

This man lusted for his son,

A man you only met.

Surly, you wanted him none.

But instead you smiled,

you small hand in his.

You stared for awhile

before giving him a kiss.

It was gentle and soft

on his cheek that was studded.

Then you backed off.

This feeling inside: loved it.

Francis smiled at you,

flirtation on his lips.

Complying with the mood,

he leaned in for a French kiss.

You turned your head and he

pecked your cheek. You told the man,

"I am not so easy."

You prayed he could understand.

"Of course, you're not," he said.

Francis gave you a long wink.

"Perhaps when you shift ends

we can get something to drink."

You smiled and gave him

his beautiful rose bouquet.

"Tell Matthieu you love him,"

You said. "Then we can, okay?"

Francis stared at you, shocked.

Slowly, he took them from you

and stood as still as a rock,

Staring frozen at you.

"Merci beaucoup, merci,"

He said as he kissed your hand.

The French man left steady-

You watched as long as you can.

Francis Bonnefoy was gone,

no longer in your presence.

But he was like a song:

still there, but not seen again.

Every Valentine's day,

you waited with the flowers

for him to come your way

and love you for the hour.

But he never did come.

The sad truth was made so clear:

He never told his one son

About his fatherly fear.

Twas the strangest of man-

That Frenchman, France Bonnefoy.

Did his boy understand

He was his father's true joy?

It was Valentine's day,

That holiday was lover's cheer

You've sold flowers all day

Waiting for him to appear.

* * *

**MW: **Funfact: The story about why France gave Canada away was the original back story for some hinted Franada in HETA. But I decided that since Canada was not a very important character, it wasn't necessary and thus I deleted it.

Plus I didn't think that the fangirls would be happy if I made France such a pervert.

**French Pronunciation Guide**

"Bonjour" [bon-j-roar] Hello

"Je m'appelle" [j-e-ma-pell] My name is

"Les fleurs" [lay fl-err] the flowers

"Ma chère" [ma-share] My dear

"Notre maison" [No-tra-may-sOn] My house

"Mon fils" [mOn-fee-s] My son

"Mon Angleterre" [mOn-Ang-le-tare] My England

"Mais je suis son pere" [May-j-e-sw-eas-sOn-pear] But I am his father

"Merci beaucoup" [mercy-bow-coop] Thanks a lot

**Drop in a review!**


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